In the spring, the time of the nausea, the ringing
Complancency is suppressed by melodic singing
However confined I may be, I hear, not see
The voices of languages far beyond me
In the canopy of blue and white, quite
Arbitrary as they always seem, I'd
look upward into the bright abyss
and demand a decree for this
continuous singing. Birds,
Bees, all the like I see.
Yet these voices do
they actually mean
something to me?
Yes, they'd have
to, I've felt so
free. In spite
of their song,
I'd drawn a
strong, true
view of thee.
Illustrious, is
the sound.
Despite
in life
our
limitations,
are only those
as to see through
the most lucious of
those warm, spring days.
The skies retain their innocence,
their purity. The blooms, replenish
the assurance of the weary passerby.
That yes, this is the revival of new life.
New opportunity, new resurgence, from
the darkest days of dreadful desloation.
The solace of rebirth, the transcendental
art of the Creator, the orator of law, the one who savors in this oncoming season of spring.